


Falling

by carolej126



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolej126/pseuds/carolej126
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally published in Blood Brothers 2 (Gold'n Lily Press, 2008]</p><p>Dean is determined to keep his brother from falling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling

One

Dean tried not to stumble, knowing if he fell, Sammy would fall, too.

His arms aching from the strain, even though he'd only carried the crying baby as far as the stairs, Dean made his way down the staircase. Unable to hold on to the railing for support and balance, he leaned against the wall with his shoulder and hip as he descended.

Behind him, he could hear his father's frantic voice, and as he headed for the front door, he could smell the smoke wafting down the steps and through the house.

He propped baby Sammy against his chest and fumbled for the knob, desperate to get the door open and both of them outside before the fire caught up with them. When the door opened, he let out a sigh of relief and scampered through the doorway and into the fresh air as fast as his little legs could move, afraid the fire might even follow them out into the yard.

Sammy had been looking up at his brother, his tears dried up and a trusting smile on his little face, but as Dean continued to move, he started to whimper quietly. Dean wasn't sure if it was because he was afraid of the fire or because he wanted his mommy. Dean understood. He was afraid of the fire, too, and wanted Mommy to come out of the house before the fire could get her. 

Halfway across the yard, Dean paused to look up at the nursery window, only to be gathered up in his father's arms just as the window exploded in a spray of breaking glass, shooting flames, and billowing smoke.

Dean tightened his grip on Sammy as their father carried them away from the burning house. Taking care of his little brother was his job, and he wasn't going to let him fall.

 

Two

Dean ran alongside the moving bike, one hand placed protectively on the back of the seat.

The secondhand bike wobbled a bit, just enough to cause Sammy to cry out in fear, then straightened again with a little help from the older boy beside it.

Sammy rode in the newly mown grass across the street from their rented house. It was short enough to allow the bike's wheels to turn freely, but long and soft enough to cushion any falls.

He had come close to falling several times, but Dean's quick reflexes had prevented the younger boy from taking a spill. And when Sammy was afraid to try again, afraid of falling and hurting himself, his big brother encouraged him and stayed close.

Sammy had been wanting to ride a bike for a long time, watching the other neighborhood children from their yard with a wistful expression, but Dean knew that new bikes just weren't something their father was able to provide. So, when he had found an old blue bike tossed into a nearby dumpster, he had claimed it and carried it home.

The bike had been in good shape, causing Dean to guess that some little boy had, upon receiving a new one, simply tossed the old one out, unwanted.

Dean had tightened the chain, tested the brakes, and made sure the bike was the right size for his little brother's legs before passing it over to him. Sammy's eyes had lit up, the five-year-old not caring that it was a used, faded, and slightly dented bike, only that it was now his.

One skinned knee later-Dean's, who had lunged to catch a falling bike before it could hit the ground and scraped off a layer of skin-Sammy was riding alone, confidently and happily. 

And Dean, watching proudly, was still poised to run to Sammy's assistance and keep him from falling.

 

Three

Dean had given his brother a push to start, but now as he watched, Sammy soared higher and higher into the air. His hands were gripping the chains tightly as he pumped his feet, and he was laughing at the sensations of movement and rushing air.

Pointing his toes toward the sky, Sammy leaned back as far as he could and went nearly vertical before resuming the pumping motion that had propelled him into the air.

At first, Dean had just stood nearby, leaning against one of the rusty poles that supported the metal swing set. But as Sammy began to pump his feet in earnest, he had moved closer.

The park was deserted now apart from the two boys. As the sun had gone down, the children who lived in the other ramshackle houses near the tracks had headed home, heeding the calls of their parents.

But Sammy had pleaded to stay, not yet ready to go back to their rented house. And with their father away on a hunt, and not expected back until late that night or early the next morning, Dean had, with only a brief hesitation, agreed. His father had directed him, as always, to "Take care of Sammy," and he was doing just that. He was careful about their surroundings, alert to every movement, noise, and shadow. And unlike the children who'd recently vacated the park and departed for their homes and families, Dean was armed and more than ready to defend them, if needed.

Dean watched Sammy swing for a few more moments, and then, just as he opened his mouth to tell his brother it was time to head home, Sammy went just high enough to cause his body to lift from the seat. 

As Sammy clutched wildly at the swing, trying to restore his hold, Dean stretched out his hands, and managed to snag one of the chains. Holding it tightly, he slowed Sammy's momentum just enough so he could get his balance back.

Sammy's eyes were wide, his mouth open, and he looked like he didn't know if he should cry or laugh.

So Dean smiled a reassuring smile that said, "I won't let you fall," and put his brother at ease again.

 

Four

Dean looked back toward the cliffs, searching for his brother. 

He and Sam had split up, each following the tracks of a werecat. Sam had headed through the woods and toward the rocky cliffs that dotted the hillside. Dean's trail had led him in the direction of the river, and it had taken him more than thirty minutes to track, corner, and dispatch his quarry.

And in that time, he hadn't seen or heard any sign of his brother.

There hadn't been any calls for assistance, any sounds to indicate Sam was in trouble, but there also hadn't been any gunfire aside from his own. And now, Dean was starting to get a very uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He checked one more time, hoping to see a familiar lanky figure moving through the woods on his way to their previously selected rendezvous site. But when he failed to see his brother, he readied his rifle and started for the trees, his attention split between searching for Sam and watching out for the other shapeshifter. 

He tried to walk quietly, eliminating as much of the crackling and crunching noises his feet made as possible as he walked through the dry leaves and brush, but it was almost impossible. So, every few feet, he'd stop and listen. 

At first there was nothing but the sound of wind and insects and birds. And then Dean heard a sound. He wasn't sure of its source; it had simply been a hushed noise carried on the wind, nearly inaudible to his ears. But it was the only thing he had to work with, the only possible clue to Sam's location. 

So he moved forward, listening carefully, until he heard it again. A faint cry that sounded like his name. It was a muffled sound, as if someone who was down to their last breath had rallied just enough to call out one final time. 

And this time, Dean knew where it had come from and who had made it.

Cursing under his breath, he ran as fast as he could, heading for the edge of the cliff, somehow already knowing what he would find. 

Sam had gone over the side, and now was only seconds from falling to the ground more than two hundred feet below. 

Without heed for his own safety, Dean threw himself forward, his arms outstretched. And just as Sam's fingers slipped from their hold, Dean grasped one flailing hand, held on tight, and refused to let him fall. 

 

Five

Dean snatched a quick look at his brother without really turning his head, or alerting Sam to his perusal.

Seated on the park bench beside him, Sam held the same pose he'd held for several hours. His shoulders were slumped and his chin was lowered almost to his chest, revealing a tiredness that bordered on exhaustion, and his hands rested in his lap, fingers interlocked and white at the knuckles. 

If Sam's head had been up, revealing his face, Dean knew he would have gotten a glimpse of the haunted eyes Sam had worn for the past few days. He would have also seen the lines of pain that revealed the headache his brother still sported, despite the large amount of painkillers Dean had pressed on him.

And while it might not have been obvious to a casual observer, Dean could tell Sam was still losing weight. He'd tried to hide it, deliberately or unconsciously, by wearing several shirts topped by his familiar hoodie, but to the brother who lived and worked with him 24/7, it was obvious. 

Dean had tried his best to get him to eat, stopping at "real" restaurants instead of the fast-food greasy spoon joints they normally frequented. But when he had managed to get Sam to order, or had ordered for him with a forced laugh, pretending to make light of the situation, Sam had only picked at his food. And at times, claiming he wasn't hungry, he hadn't eaten anything at all, but simply filled his stomach with cup after cup of coffee.

Sam hadn't shared much, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself, and refusing to talk about the nightmares that prevented anything beyond a few snatched moments of sleep, but Dean knew. 

He knew that despite his best efforts, Sam was close to falling apart, trapped in a vicious, unending cycle of what-if's ever since Dean had revealed their father's whispered words about Sam's possible fate. What if he went darkside? What if he hurt Dean or one of their friends? What if Dean, despite his determination, couldn't save him?

What if Dean was forced to kill him in the end?

Dean moved closer to his brother, brushing Sam's shoulder with his own, wordlessly offering support and comfort. And while there was no response from Sam, Dean wasn't about to give up. He would be there, at Sam's side, no matter how long it took for him to accept the offered help, and finally believe that he would never have to face the future alone. Because Dean had vowed to never let him fall.

~end~


End file.
